


Your Children Are Not Your Children

by stuckoncloud9



Series: New 52 Scarebat [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, New 52, Parenthood, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but i know some people really don't like it, so i thought i'd still tag it just in case, the beadick is background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: While recovering from traumatic brain damage, "Ric" Grayson unknowingly found himself in the office of the worst psychiatrist possible — a disguised Jonathan Crane. But while the rest of "Dr. Gruidae's" patients found themselves tormented by the Gotham villain, Grayson was mysteriously spared. Bruce Wayne wants to know why.
Relationships: Bea Bennett/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne
Series: New 52 Scarebat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020975
Comments: 10
Kudos: 43





	1. Nov. 14, Port's Park, Bludhaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're unfamiliar with the New 52 "Ric Grayson" plotline, the gist is that Dick Grayson was shot in the head and suffered traumatic brain injury. He had total amnesia of almost his entire life, including his all of his time as Robin and Nightwing. Though his Gotham family tried to help him recover his memories, the overwhelming feeling that they only cared about someone he didn't know how to be made Dick feel lost and rejected. Taking the name "Ric," he decided to move back to Bludhaven to see if he could rediscover himself.

The door opened before I could knock twice.

“Hey,” Dick Grayson said, his outstretched hand immediately returning to his pocket. The unfamiliarity in his eyes was something I still hadn’t gotten used to.

“Hi, Ric,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”

His palpable relief that I’d remembered the right name made me feel more guilty than the fact I’d almost forgotten it. He gestured for me to enter with a nod of his head, and I followed him into the apartment.

It was small, which I was expecting. The kitchenette was separated from the cramped living room by a small strip of counter. One of the cabinets on the wall looked like it probably lowered into a pull out bed. 

“Lived here long?” I asked. As if I didn’t already know that the lease was signed to Beatrice Bennet, bartender and regular volunteer at King’s Park homeless shelter.

“It’s my girlfriend’s, actually,” Dick said. “She said she didn’t mind if we used it.” 

Thoughtful, given that Dick had mostly been living out of his car since he returned to Bludhaven. “Any idea when she’ll be coming home?” I asked, keeping my voice as casual as possible.

“Not really,” Dick said. “Her hours vary a lot.”

So he would be texting her to let her know when I was gone. Right.

“I can certainly relate to that,” I said. 

“Hmm,” he said, gesturing to a wooden chair at what was either Beatrice’s dining or coffee table. I sat down where he indicated. It was generous of him — the other was a folding chair. I set my bag down at my feet. “Speaking of,” he said once he’d sat down as well.

“Yes,” I said. To business. “Do you think Scarecrow knows your secret identity?” 

“He didn’t recognize me,” Dick replied. “As Nightwing. Not in our sessions, not on the street. He didn’t even recognize me on the street _from_ our sessions. Even though he was constantly noting the similarities.” 

“You were disguised.”

Dick laughed, though the sound was more bitter than my memory of it. The contrast was disconcerting. “My ‘disguise’ in that alley was a smear of motor oil over my eyes. He was my therapist for _months._ ” 

I felt my brow furrowing, despite my attempt to keep an impartial expression. “You... smeared motor oil over your eyes?”

“I was kind of pressed for time,” he said, his shoulders raising defensively. “And besides, it was easily the least dangerous thing I did all evening. You’re more worried about me getting oil in my eyes than trying to fist fight a scythe-wielding super villain?”

“Eye infections are serious.”

“So _yes_ ,” he said, then shook his head. “You know, the costume’s a pretty thin disguise too. It counts on a degree of separation. I didn’t have that with Dr. Gruidae— with _Scarecrow_. I did everything short of handing him my vigilante resume. Hell, I even told him that I can disassemble and assemble a gun in three minutes.”

I stared at him. “ _Three_ minutes?”

“Blindfolded,” he clarified. I nodded, then frowned.

“...Why would you tell him that?” I asked. “Why would you tell _anyone_ that?”

“Because I wanted therapy, Bruce!” Dick snapped. “Because I didn’t understand what kind of person would dedicate their life to learning that, and I apparently, I _was_ that person. And he helped me with it. Actually, genuinely helped me.”

His angry features melted into something else as his shoulders slumped forward. “At least I... thought he did.” 

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. He leaned forward in his chair, massaging his temple in his hands.

“Alfred told me you drink beer now,” I said.

He glanced up at me. “...Yeah?”

I leaned down to open the bag at my feet. “I brought some.”

Dick looked curious, despite himself. “ _Bruce Wayne_ brought me a six-pack?” he asked, watching as I set the container on the table. “Wow. And they look so... artisanal.”

He didn’t seem thrilled. “I asked Alfred’s wine guy what the best beer was,” I explained.

“And I see he responded by selling you his most expensive,” Dick said. His words were critical, but he grabbed a bottle all the same, casually cracking off the bottle cap on the edge of the table. 

“Bea found this on the street,” Dick said, responding to a criticism I had purposefully withheld. “I helped her carry it up here. She does that all the time. Aren’t you going to have one?”

“They’re all for you,” I said. It probably wouldn’t improve the mood to mention I don’t drink. “And her. If they’re not too pretentious.” 

He took an experimental sip. “They’re not,” he decided. “I mean, they are. But this one’s good enough to justify the ego.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “The last time Jonathan Crane practiced private psychiatry, his final session ended with a patient being butchered to death with a carving knife.”

Dick coughed on his drink. “Jesus Christ.”

“All of his other Bludhaven patients have suffered mental breaks, had loved ones die under mysterious circumstances, or died themselves,” I continued. “Even a substance abuse support group he occasionally led had an outbreak of ‘group psychosis’ only a few weeks before the citywide incident.”

“He... mentioned that to me,” Dick said, his fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. “After a session. When we were walking to our cars together.” 

Dick looked disturbed by the past familiarity, but his discomfort paled in comparison to mine. Not just because my son had been so close to a murderer, but because he had seen the Scarecrow unmasked dozens of times before. The Dick Grayson I knew could have instantly spotted Jonathan Crane from fifty feet away across a crowded busy street. The man sitting across from me had spent months obliviously chatting with him in parking lots. 

“My point is that Scarecrow’s therapy generally doesn’t... _help_ people,” I said. “Did you ever have hallucinations afterwards? Bouts of anxiety?”

He shook his head. “No and no,” he said, taking another drink. “An unusual peace of mind, if anything. I didn’t have any previous experience with psychiatrists — not that I would remember, anyway — but he seemed normal. Maybe a little more friendly than I was expecting.”

“Friendly,” I echoed, disbelieving. That was about the last thing I was expecting Dick to say about an antisocial sociopath. “How so?”

Dick paused, thinking it over. “He shared things about himself,” he said eventually. “About people he knew, or cared about. ” 

He took a long, long drink from the bottle, then stood up to set it back down in the container. “Now I realize it was just him obsessing over us.” He frowned. “Or... over Batman and Robin, I guess. At the time I thought it was to make me more comfortable, to feel like I was having a more equal conversation. It never seemed hateful. Just...”

“Friendly,” I finished.

Dick grabbed a second bottle. “Yeah,” he said, opening it in the same way he had the first. “Plus there was the cupcake.”

Now I was sure I’d misheard him. “The what?”

“He got me a cupcake to celebrate my clean bill of mental health,” Dick said. “Chocolate. Blue frosting. It was pretty good, actually. Some wax from the candle, I guess, but he had me blow it out pretty quickly after he lit it. He was worried it would set off the smoke detectors and the sprinklers would get all his books wet.”

He dropped back down into his seat, scratching his head. “God,” he said. “He just seemed so normal, you know?”

I did not know. I was struggling to think of a single person who had met Jonathan Crane, in the mask or in the flesh, who had considered him ‘normal.’

“And after you ate the... baked good... did you have any trouble driving?” I asked. “Fell asleep earlier than usual, or felt hazy, or... well. I already asked about hallucinations and anxiety.”

“You did,” he said, looking annoyed. “You don’t think the time he _fed_ me something was the first thing I thought of when I found out? But no. Totally normal night. I had a great date with Bea after that session. Our first date, actually.”

I stared at him. “You’re telling me the Scarecrow gave you a completely unaltered cupcake.”

“No fear toxin, no nothing,” Dick said, crossing his heart with a finger. “Well, not no nothing. Definite cinnamon-y note. I think he might have made it himself.”

I didn’t know how to address that, so I decided not to. “And he gave this to you in order to celebrate not having you as a patient anymore?”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, detective, it was a ‘good riddance’ gift.” He snorted, taking another sip from his beer. “He said he was proud of me. Something about how I’d grown up to become a man. Which... not hugely related to our sessions, I guess. Given that they were about me not having any lingering mental health problems from my traumatic brain damage.” 

A scenario Doctor “Gruidae” had definitely not been certified to clear him of. But that would be a conversation for another day. Assuming I decided to talk to Dick about it at all, instead of just going above his head to get his doctors to demand he return to therapy.

“He didn’t know Ric Grayson as a child,” I said. “But he did know...”

“Robin,” Dick finished for me. He looked like the name left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Do you think he knows?” I asked again.

He thought about it longer this time. “No. I don’t know why. He should have. He’s in Arkham now, right? If he knew who Nightwing was, he would have told people. His doctors, the other inmates.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not. But it’s clear he didn’t change his plan after his sessions with you. He’d been preparing for citywide pandemonium in Bludhaven since he arrived. Witnesses claim he was calling for Nightwing to challenge him as he released the toxin in the streets. If he knew that Nightwing had total amnesia, he would have no reason to expect you’d respond.”

At least, _I_ wouldn’t have expected Dick to respond. He’d made it more than clear to me that ‘Ric’ Grayson would not be continuing his previous self’s vigilante activities. I’d almost made my peace with it, justifying that I wouldn’t want him on the streets in this state anyway. 

And then he’d intervened in Scarecrow’s assault on Bludhaven regardless.

“So why _didn’t_ he know?” Dick asked. “I mean, I told you. I gave him all the pieces. My weird paramilitary training, how I’d been doing acrobatics as long as I could walk. Even that I could speak twelve languages. And he knew from my file that my parents were murdered by gangsters around the same time Robin showed up as a crime fighter, _and_ that afterwards I became Bruce Wayne’s ward. You know, the man who’s adopted exactly as many children as there were Robins?”

“The number of Robins isn’t common knowledge,” I said. 

Dick looked about as convinced by my statement as I was. The people of Gotham might not have noticed the transitions between Robins — a significant portion of them didn’t even realize he and Batman weren’t some kind of crime fighting vampires. But the Arkhamites knew. They got too close not to. 

I tried again. “Scarecrow’s... courteous, when it comes to secret identities,” I said. “I’ve fought him a lot over the years. There’s been several times, while I was under the influence of his toxin, that he had a chance to unmask me. Or even to get around my cowl’s defenses by manipulating me into doing it myself. But he never has.”

“Courteous,” Dick echoed. 

“He doesn’t want to know,” I said. “Or just doesn’t care. Some of them are like that.”

“But... he’s a psychiatrist,” Dick said, frowning. His blunted fingernails tapped against the glass of the bottle. “Or he was trained as one, anyway. His whole thing is getting inside your head. Why wouldn’t he want to know who’s under the mask?”

“I won’t pretend to understand Jonathan Crane,” I said. It was a lie, obviously. A good quarter of my work as Batman involved understanding the minds of criminals like Crane. “But he seems to prefer to live his own life behind a mask. Maybe he prefers ours that way as well.”

“What, that burlap thing?” Dick said, the corners of his mouth curling with distaste. “Why?”

I frowned, unsure if this was a trick question. “I mean... you did _see_ his face?” 

Dick rolled his eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the billionaire playboy is shallow.”

That stung, for some reason. “I’m not— I didn’t mean to suggest—” I paused to rephrase, then frowned. “He literally wears a bag over his head, Ric. It doesn’t matter what I think about his appearance. His own opinion is pretty clear.”

“That doesn’t make you _not_ shallow,” Dick said, then raised his hands in defeat when he saw my expression. “Okay, okay. Look, it’s just weird. We’re talking about a guy who a few weeks ago, I was thanking profusely for making my condition as easy as possible. If you told me then that you thought he should wear a bag over his head, I would have slapped you.”

“I didn’t say _I_ thought—” I started, then shook my head. “This is off topic. I’m still confused as to why he would have treated you differently from the rest of his patients if he didn’t know you were Nightwing.” 

Dick grinned, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Well, Bea says I’m very charming.”

“Bea isn’t a supervillain,” I said. I took a mental note to check whether or not Bea was a supervillain. “As a demographic, they generally find you more grating than charming.” 

“Hmm.” Dick took a swig from his bottle. “Including Scarecrow?”

“Yes,” I said. “Especially Scarecrow. He despises anyone who’s not afraid of him, and you... well, you weren’t. Less than I was, sometimes. You pitied him.” I paused. “Did you... pity Dr. Gruidae?”

“Not really,” he said. “I mean, I thought his name was super unfortunate. Simultaneously glad and disappointed to hear _that_ was fake.”

I knew what he meant. Sometimes I wondered if I was the only Gothamite capable of coming up with a fake name that wasn’t some kind of obvious pun. “Gruidae” was even worse than “Nygma.”

“I don’t know, I guess I thought he seemed lonely,” Dick continued. “No wedding ring, no pictures on the wall of family or friends. I was always his last appointment, but he never talked about having any social plans when we walked out of the building together.”

He peeled at the bottle’s label with the nail of his thumb. What Scarecrow had actually been doing with his evenings went unsaid. 

“I didn’t broadcast that I was thinking any of that, though,” Dick said. “Maybe I was a little friendlier because of it. I definitely didn’t pity him. He seemed... fine.” 

His voice hesitated on the last word.

“Fine?” I pressed. 

“Well, he talked about a ‘boy he once knew’ a _lot_ ,” Dick said, looking uncomfortable. “Very familiar. _Very_ past tense. He kept saying we were similar— which makes sense, given that in retrospect he was obviously talking about me. But. Um.”

I waited.

“This sounds dumb,” he warned. “At the time, I kind of figured he was talking about, like... a dead son, or something.”

I sat back in my chair.

“Or something,” Dick repeated. “I don’t know. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when he wanted to turn our last session into an impromptu birthday thing. Because I thought I reminded him of someone he... would have wanted to do that with.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” 

“I was wondering why Scarecrow only chose to come to Bludhaven now,” I said. 

Dick’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Gotham authorities have decided the whole endeavor was a grudge match against Nightwing,” I said. “But the timeline didn’t make sense to me. Nightwing has operated in Bludhaven for almost seven years now. If Crane was driven to Bludhaven by obsession, which the sheer amount of Nightwing-related merchandise and keepsakes in his apartment seemed to imply—”

“Excuse me?”

“—then it wouldn’t make any sense for him to only arrive in Bludhaven now, after years of no contact whatsoever,” I finished. “Unless something changed.”

Dick tilted his head, considering. “There was still only one Nightwing at that point,” he said. “Everyone thought he was me. The others didn’t make their debut until after Scarecrow had already come to Bludhaven.” 

“Yes,” I said. “Detective Alphonse Sapienza.”

Dick glared at me. 

“He was wearing a Nightwing costume and using a gun,” I said, glaring back. “I investigated. I thought Scarecrow might have come to investigate too, actually. But the timing was wrong. He broke out of Arkham and disappeared before Sapienza ever arrived on the scene.” 

“Then why did he come?” Dick asked. “If it wasn’t a suddenly remembered grudge, or curiosity about one of Batman’s kids using firearms, or... I don’t know, just a general desire for a vacation in the second-worst city in New Jersey.” 

“Well,” I said evenly, “there’s a rumor that Nightwing is dead.”

Dick didn’t say anything. He got up to put his now-empty bottle back in the six pack, then reached for a new one. His fingers lingered over the neck for a few seconds before he shoved his hands in his pockets instead.

“You said you’d take care of all that,” he said. “So no one would link what happened to me to what happened to...”

He trailed off, not sitting back down.

“You were shot in the head on the roof of the GCPD,” I said, as emotionlessly as I could muster. “Bane planned it like that on purpose. I’m a liar, not a miracle worker. There were always going to be rumors.”

Dick nodded, though he didn’t look happy about it. “So,” he said. “Scarecrow came to Bludhaven. Ripped up the city to see if Nightwing would jump out of the woodwork. Instead he ran into four fake Nightwings, and one crazed civilian with a face full of motor oil. He’s pathologically incapable of looking beyond a mask, so he didn’t recognize me as Ric Grayson or as Nightwing.”

“That would be my current theory,” I said. It was clear that Dick wasn’t planning on returning to his seat, so I stood up. 

“So Scarecrow doesn’t know my secret identity,” Dick said. “He thinks I’m dead.”

“Yes.”

An unreadable expression crossed his face, then dissipated. “And that’s the best case scenario. Because he knows Ric Grayson’s alive.”

“Yes.”

He considered it for a moment. “I guess you can leave happy then,” he said.

I could have laughed, if it hadn’t so obviously been a dismissal.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” I said instead. 

I picked up my bag from the floor. “Tell Bea I said hello,” I said over my shoulder as I left.

“Wait,” Dick said as I made it to the door.

I turned around.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know the... pseudo vigilantism I’ve been doing lately has probably sent a mixed message.”

I carefully kept my screamed _YES_ to myself. 

“I can’t be your son,” he said. “I can’t be Nightwing. But the situation with Scarecrow showed me...”

He trailed off. I waited for him to find his place.

“It showed me that I can’t be someone who doesn’t help people,” he finished. “So that’s what I’m doing. It’s not anything more than that.”

 _Then you are my son_.

“Okay,” I said, hefting my bag over my shoulder. “Anything else?”

“No,” he said, backing away from the door.

I nodded. “Goodbye, Ric.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While doing research for my OTHER scarebat fic, I ended up coming across this part of the New 52 Ric Grayson arc (starting in Nightwing #50), where Scarecrow does in fact come to Bludhaven to challenge Nightwing and ends up with an amnesiac Dick Grayson as a patient instead. In the actual comic, Scarecrow's motivation seems to just be obsession with Nightwing, but like Bruce in this chapter, I was skeptical of the timeline. If Scarecrow just wanted closure on his grudge against the Boy Wonder, why wait SEVEN YEARS and only come to Bludhaven after Nightwing disappears?
> 
> Every other detail is as accurate to the comic as possible. So yes, Scarecrow REALLY DOES give Ric a fear-toxin-free "birthday" cupcake while talking about how he's proud of Ric (and Nightwing, wherever he is) for growing up. I thoroughly recommend this arc to anyone who wonders what it would look like for Batman's villains to feel weirdly parental towards Batman's children.


	2. Nov. 15, Arkham Island, Gotham City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your children are not your children [...] you may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you."  
> \- Kahlil Gibran, "On Children."

“Nightwing’s alive,” I said. 

Jonathan Crane stared at me from across the metal Arkham visitation table.

“What?” he asked, eventually. 

“He’s fine,” I said. “He’s on a mission in South Asia. I can’t tell you the exact country. I don’t know the exact country, actually. No one ever bothers to tell me these things.”

“You misunderstand me,” he said. He folded his hands on the table’s surface, as far away from his body as the chains allowed. “I heard you. I just don’t understand why you’re telling me this information.”

I crossed my arms. “It’s public knowledge that I fund Batman at this point, right?” I asked. “Or did nobody tell you? Because I don’t think that most people found it difficult to conclude that Nightwing’s on my payroll as well. You don’t think those batons of his come cheap, do you?” I frowned. “Well, they might seem like they come cheap. Given how often he breaks and replaces them. But I promise you, they are all very expensive.”

“I’m well aware of your connection to the Dark Knight, Mr. Wayne,” Crane said, his patience clearly waning. “I’m also aware that last week, thirty four people died as a result of my attempt to lure Nightwing out into the open. _Specifically_ so that I could kill him. Forgive me if I don’t see the logic behind informing me that he’s alive, other than inviting me to try again.”

He tilted his head to the side. On his stick-thin body, the motion was decidedly birdlike. “Do you _want_ me to try again, Mr. Wayne?”

I gave him a withering stare. “I’d advise you against it,” I said. “We’ve hired four new Nightwings for Bludhaven. We’re looking at a fifth right now. The time to kill the original Nightwing was...” I looked down at my watch. “Sometime last year.”

“Very amusing,” Crane said, not looking very amused. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“While you were in Bludhaven, you opened a private psychiatric practice under a fake name and falsified doctorate,” I said. “Among 35 other patients, all of whom have suffered as a result of your influence in their lives, you became my son’s therapist.”

For a man who prided himself on his mastery of a fundamental human emotion, Jonathan Crane had never been very good at hiding any of his. Another reason he preferred the mask, perhaps. I watched as his face shifted from surprise, to fear, to something bizarrely akin to envy. Then it went back to blank.

“It’s kind of a comedy of errors, right?” I asked. “My oldest child suffers a traumatic brain injury, demands that he be allowed to move back to Bludhaven and choose his own doctor rather than stay and recover in Gotham, and where does he find himself? The office of a Gotham supervillain. Not only is my son at his most vulnerable with someone completely unqualified to help him, that person is actively interested in tormenting and _murdering_ their patients.”

Crane didn’t even try to hide the flicker of annoyance that crossed his face at the word ‘unqualified.’

“So what is _this_?” he asked, steepling his bony fingers against each other. “A prelude to punishment, for being so prideful as to touch one of the Wayne scions? Should I look forward to six months of solitary? Or perhaps a heightened use of electroshock therapy in my treatment program.”

“You could have attacked Nightwing in Bludhaven at any time over the last seven years,” I said. “You didn’t. You stayed busy in Gotham. I doubt he even remembers the last time he saw you.”

To his credit, he didn’t rise to the obvious bait. He just glared and waited for me to finish my point.

“You only relocated to Bludhaven earlier this year,” I said. “Around the same time that rumours surfaced suggesting that Nightwing was dead. So ‘this’ is me telling you he’s alive. That’s it.” 

“Is it?” he asked, looking annoyed. “You could have sent anyone to tell me this information, but instead _you_ came to Arkham in person. Presumably because you thought it would be more rhetorically convincing coming from your mouth. But even if I did take you at your word, I’d still assume you had an ulterior motive in sharing it. If you think this attempt at manipulation will keep me away from the city where your son happens to reside, you’re even more of a misguided fool than I thought.”

I sighed. “This is not an attempt at manipulation. You’ll note that I have considerably more children living in Gotham than Bludhaven. I don’t care _where_ you commit crimes, as long as there are heroes ready to stop them.”

“Then I’m forced to repeat my question,” he said, though now he looked more curious than frustrated. “What is this?”

“Your 35 other patients all suffered as a result of your influence,” I repeated. “My son is fine. I don’t like owing people favors, Dr. Crane. Consider it a business transaction.”

Now Scarecrow looked angry. “You think I altered my experiments because I wanted a _favor_ from _you_?” he asked, fists clenching as they slammed against the table’s cold surface. 

“No,” I said, carefully refusing to react. “It doesn’t matter why you decided to spare my child. You did, and I owed you. Now I don’t owe you. Nightwing is alive. Take it or leave it. I’ve done my part.”

I stood up, ready to leave. The cameras in the interview room were off for this conversation — a fact I hadn’t told Crane, but one by this point he doubtlessly suspected. Not that I had intended to say anything that would put me at a disadvantage, should the Arkham staff come to hear it. But the lack of record seemed appropriate.

“Your son is... very charming.” 

I turned around. “He certainly thinks so,” I said. The barest trace of amusement crossed Crane’s features. “I’m surprised you agree with him.”

He looked away from me, pulling at a loose thread on the sleeve of his orange uniform. “As was I,” he said. “Ric is full of bravado and confidence. But there is an inherent innocence — or loneliness, maybe — that is... endearing.”

“That’s funny,” I said, retaking my seat. “He said the same thing about you.”

Crane raised an eyebrow. “He said _I_ came across as _innocent_?”

“As lonely,” I corrected. “And that it was endearing.”

He looked very much like he wanted to stroke his chin consideringly. Given his limited mobility, he decided to twiddle his thumbs instead. “You two talked about our sessions?”

Now it was my turn to look skeptical. “Did you expect me to... _not_ check in with my son after finding out he had biweekly appointments with a supervillain?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “He described your relationship as distant. He thought you resented him for not being the person he used to be.”

“He is the person he used to be,” I said. “He doesn’t think he is because he doesn’t remember who that was.”

“I assure you, he has a very detailed mental picture of who that was,” Crane said. He looked focused and engaged for the first time since I entered the room. “Most of our sessions were spent discussing him.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He might not have _his_ memories of who he was before the accident,” Crane said, “but he woke up surrounded by people who retained theirs. He’s pieced together Dick Grayson from his reflection in their eyes.”

“We make for poor mirrors,” I said. “If he’s based his opinion of who he was off of me, then he probably thinks Dick Grayson was a paranoid sociopath.”

Crane looked at me pointedly.

“Oh,” I said. “Well. That would explain a lot, actually.”

“I’m sure it does,” he said, leaning forward. “Tell me, Mr. Wayne. Did you come here because you don’t know anyone else in my field who cares as little as I do for the ethics of doctor-patient confidentiality? Because if you want a look inside the heads of any of your other children, I could refer you to one Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I believe she’s accepting new patients right now.”

I made a note to put considerably more energy into my search for the escaped Harley Quinn. 

“You’re trying to upset me,” I observed.

He tapped his fingernails against the table’s surface. “Is it working?” 

“Completely,” I said. “I can’t believe you just implied that there’s _anyone_ in your field I couldn’t bribe into breaking doctor-patient confidentiality. I know you know who I am, so that’s just incredibly rude.”

He laughed at that. Much like with Dick, the sound was different than I remembered. Scarecrow’s laugh, like everything else about his demeanor in-costume, was inherently performative. It was intended to unsettle, to torment his victims and distract his enemies. The laugh I’d just heard could also be considered unsettling, but only in the sense that the sound was bizarre. Given Dick’s affection for the unconventional, I could easily see how he’d become endeared to his therapist if the man had responded to any of his jokes with that wheezing cackle. 

He watched me think with great interest. “You must wonder why I treated Ric differently than my other patients.”

“Not really,” I said. “I’m aware of your personal proclivities, Doctor. You’d hardly be the first man to find my son attractive.” 

I wasn’t actually aware of any such proclivities, but it was the kind of factoid that was always useful to know. Based on the way Crane’s face flushed before twisting into a mask of hatred and rage, I guessed that my pet theory was correct. 

“H-How _dare_ you!” he seethed. “He was a patient. I’m old enough to be his _father_.” 

“Not really,” I said. “Unless you were a much more sexually active thirteen year old than I would have expected. Which would open a whole different can of worms, really.” 

Crane’s fury didn’t rescind, but it seemed to run colder. “You say that, but one can’t help but note that you’re younger than I am,” he said, glaring. “And yet for years, you were his legal guardian.”

“There’s not as many years between us as my plastic surgeon would imply,” I said. Mostly he removed the various scars Batman accrued in places that were unbecoming for billionaire playboys, but he did go after the occasional wrinkle. “And it’s still an interesting place to draw an ethical line. Given that Ric is twenty five years old, and you’re a serial killer who tortures his patients.” 

Crane opened his mouth to object, then closed it again.

“You’re trying to upset me,” he said eventually.

I smiled. “Is it working?”

“Edward is right about you,” Crane said, sounding impressed. I couldn’t tell whether it was with me or Nygma. “You _are_ evil.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot, coming from you. Are you going to offer me any more insights into my brain damaged son’s psyche, or should I just go? Because at this point I’m skipping a board meeting for this. Technically I could still arrive fashionably late.”

He sat back in his chair, folding his hands together again. “My discussions with Ric were revelatory,” he said. “Though mostly for reasons related to my theories on fear. His ability to live in the moment was inspiring. And his entirely genuine bravado offered interesting insight into other fearless people I’ve known over the years.”

“Yes, he mentioned the constant Nightwing comparisons,” I said. 

Crane had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “He put that together, did he?”

“He’s not exactly stupid,” I said.

“He is not,” Crane agreed. “I take it that you’ve decided to read into this.”

“Oh, all the way,” I said. 

He paused for a moment, considering. “I feel obligated to clarify,” he said eventually. “I _hate_ Nightwing. I hated him when he was Robin, and I hate him now. Whether he’s dead or otherwise. My loathing for him is only outmatched by my loathing for Batman.”

“I believe you,” I said. “You just tried to burn his city to the ground. Actions speak louder than words.” 

His eyes narrowed behind the circular frames of his glasses. “So your decision to come to Arkham Asylum and inform me that Nightwing is alive is _completely_ unrelated to any delusional belief that I went to Bludhaven out of concern for his safety.”

“That would certainly be an interesting hypothesis, Doctor,” I said. “But I don’t believe I suggested anything like that at all.” 

Scarecrow stared at me like he was visualizing strangling me to death with the chains shackling him to the table. I found myself feeling momentarily grateful that the former psychiatrist didn’t possess the same Houdini-like flair for escape artistry as some of his peers.

“You seem like an intelligent man, Mr. Wayne,” he said. “Despite.... well. Years of tabloid evidence pointing to the contrary. Surely you understand that your assumption that I have an emotional stake in Nightwing’s condition makes it even less likely that you would offer me accurate, unaltered information on the subject.”

I frowned. “If you think I’m _that_ manipulative, then maybe you’ve been spending too much time with Edward Nygma.”

“Any amount of time spent with Edward Nygma is too much,” Crane said, not looking any less skeptical of me. 

I tapped my fingers against the table’s surface, considering my best step forward. 

“My son has been in a bad place since the accident,” I tried.

Crane’s expression didn’t change. “So I noticed.”

“He abandoned all his previous close relationships, and avoided forming permanent new ones,” I said. “He started gambling, which is inconsistent with his pre-accident grasp of basic mathematics. And he’s been having blackouts that he thought he could hide from _me,_ which is just a further indication of his lack of judgement.” 

“One might argue that the fact that he’s _having_ blackouts is more worrying than his thinking a man who lives in another city wouldn’t notice them,” Crane observed. 

The flicker of concern that had crossed his features when I mentioned Dick’s lapses in consciousness indicated that he wasn’t just being needling, so I decided not to mock his point. It also indicated that Dick hadn’t shared this symptom during their sessions, which made me momentarily annoyed with Dick until I remembered that his therapist was a supervillain. 

“He’s been in a bad place,” I repeated. “But when I went to see him yesterday, he was in a... relatively better place. Literally.”

“Not living out of his taxi, then,” Crane guessed. 

“Or ‘borrowing’ someone else’s house while they’re on vacation,” I said. “He seemed to be living with his girlfriend, a woman he’d avoided forming any kind of committed relationship with for months. Presumably for the same reason he cut everyone else out of his life.”

“An insecurity of identity,” Crane said, pushing up his glasses. 

“An insecurity he’s starting to move past,” I said. “Somehow.”

Crane shrugged. “The tools I use to destroy my patients can be used to help them as well,” he said. “Psychiatry is a wondrous thing.” 

“...I don’t know if you could describe what you do as _psychiatry_ , per se,” I said. “I’ve had a lot of psychiatrists, I would know.”

“Would you?” he asked, scowling and pulling back. “Something tells me that their work with you wasn't tremendously successful.”

“Well, they didn’t kidnap, torture, or murder me,” I said, glaring. “So their track record is better than yours. Not that it’s a fair comparison, of course. I’ve read your file, Doctor. Even if you had good intentions, I would never have believed that anyone with your background could give reliably competent therapy.”

If Scarecrow had looked furious earlier, it was nothing compared to his expression now. “If you’ve just come here to—”

“And yet,” I interrupted him. “Despite my disbelief, Ric has improved. He’s reaching out to other people for help, he’s trusting them with his problems. He’s gotten back into old hobbies. _He_ called _me_ after you attacked Bludhaven. I was just going to find out how he was doing through a third party.”

Crane’s anger melted a bit at that last addition, replaced by an irritating amount of self-satisfaction. “From what Ric told me, that’s more of what I was expecting.” 

“He’s doing better,” I said, ignoring him. “Because of _your_ influence, as unlikely as that may be. You have, however unintentionally, brought me considerable relief. So, when I say that Nightwing’s alive...”

I watched as Crane tensed, slowly clenching his fists as my words finally breached his defenses. “...If I find out you’re lying to me,” he started to warn.

“I take favors very seriously, Doctor,” I said, standing up in my chair. “Nightwing is not dead.”

I leaned forward. “However,” I said, casually grabbing the chains attached to Crane’s arms and yanking him forward onto the table. “If you _ever_ use any of the information my son shared with you against him, I will do everything in my power to make you wish _you_ were.”

Dragging the man upwards, I braced myself from reprisal from Crane. Even bound, he could be a deadly opponent. But as I pulled the other man to eye level, I was surprised by his lack of resistance. A pink flush colored his gaunt features as the chains reached the end of their length, preventing me from drawing him any closer.

Interesting.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

Crane twitched in my grasp. “Y-Yes.”

I shoved him backwards, and he fell into his chair with a clatter of chains. He shuddered, reaching upwards to adjust his glasses.

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, brushing off my suit. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a board meeting to be late to.”

Crane cleared his throat. “You’re excused,” he said, his voice hoarser than it had been before. 

I smiled. “Goodbye, Doctor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scarecrow's discussion of why he likes Ric (“Ric is full of bravado and confidence. But there is an inherent innocence — or loneliness, maybe — that is... endearing.”) is taken directly from Nightwing #54, as is his description of how he can help patients with the same tools he uses to destroy them. Both ideas come up in a monologue he gives to the Nightwing doll that he talks to and makes dinners for, which is a WHOLE OTHER aspect of this comic I didn't have time to get into. But let me tell you... it is WILD.


End file.
